She had envisioned excitement and intrigue, not a tangle of emotions that left her confused and reluctant to continue her mission. Ah, but the brooch, she remembered, had been a gift from Victoria, one of many. She closed her fist around it. If a girl younger than she could rule a country, then certainly Holly should not begrudge the small part she had been asked to play in helping secure the crown on the head of that very young girl.
But this morning Holly had nearly forgotten her mission. Last night, she had stolen down to the stables alone to search for the missing colt. Oh, she supposed an animal whisked from the Royal Stables would have been secreted in a far more clever place than the Duke of Masterfield’s private stables, but it had been worth a look. This morning, however, missing colts couldn’t have been farther from her mind, especially with the ground blurring beneath her and her heart thundering from the presence of the dashing man galloping beside her.
Even now, she was doing it again—forgetting he was under suspicion, thinking only of how her insides heated at the sight of him, and the fact that he alone seemed to recognize the spark she tried so hard to conceal, but never quite could, because it sometimes burned too bright, too intensely, inside her.
She opened her fist. Looking at herself in the mirror, she gave a nod of approval. Her curls had been dressed to their best advantage, upswept and held with combs at her crown while spiraling tendrils danced above her shoulders. Her dress, with its plunging neckline and cinched bodice, was all the rage in London and Paris. Her jewelry was costly, but sparse and simple: earrings and the matching brooch. She affixed the piece to the aqua-blue silk, close to her shoulder. Then she turned to her sisters.
“I didn’t question him this morning,” she said in reply to Ivy’s question. “I thought it best to allow the conversation to take its natural course.”
“And?” Willow tugged her evening gloves on and smoothed the satin that reached above her elbows. Holly might look the proper lady tonight, but her youngest sister was positively angelic in soft rose trimmed in velvet and georgette. The three older Sutherlands always considered Willow the most beautiful of them all, and tonight she promised to steal the heart of every man attending the Ashworths’ ball. “What did you speak about?”
Ivy turned from the swivel mirror, where she had been scrutinizing her reflection to reassure herself that her condition had not yet become evident. She tilted her head expectantly .
“We spoke of”—everything but missing colts—“horses and the sorts of traits that sometimes hide within a bloodline. And science. He, Lord Drayton, has the most extraordinary ideas about breeding. He doesn’t leave it all to hired breeders. Nor are his efforts only for racing, but for the good of the species as a whole. Diseases, injuries . . . he hopes to ease those burdens and someday—this is most extraordinary of all—he aspires to apply his findings to humans, and—”
She paused for a quick breath and stopped. Ivy and Willow were regarding her as if she had taken leave of her senses. She quickly realized it wasn’t what she was saying that puzzled them, for scientific principles were no oddities to them, especially not since Ivy had married Simon. But it was how she had been running on, her voice rising a full octave in her excitement.
“Interesting,” Ivy said with a smile that suggested she wasn’t referring to the earl’s work. Plucking her fan from the top of the bureau, she snapped it open and fluttered it before her face. “It would certainly seem that you two connected on an academic level.”
Holly didn’t miss the teasing sarcasm. “It wasn’t like that at all, Ivy. Just because you and Simon fell in love over the gears and gadgets in his laboratory is no reason to believe two people can’t have an intelligent conversation without becoming moon-faced over each other.”
Ivy stilled her fan, her eyes peeking innocently over the lacy edge. She glanced at Willow and winked. “Did I imply any such thing?”
Willow stifled a giggle and returned her attention to Holly. “You were gone for a good two hours. Surely you didn’t talk about breeding the entire time.”
“The rest of the time we rode.”
“Ahhh,” her sisters said in unison, and traded looks of comprehension.
“Oh, never mind. What about the two of you? Did you have a chance to question more of the guests?”
“I had tea with Colin’s uncle, Lord Shelby, along with the Fenhursts, Lord and Lady Arnold, and the duchess.” Ivy smoothed her hands over her amber silk bodice and glanced in the mirror again. “Holly, are you certain no one can tell?”
“Yes, as long as you don’t repeat your fainting spell. Now, what happened during tea?”
Ivy shrugged. “I detected nothing unusual. I even tried provoking Lord Arnold into a bit of a tizzy by challenging him to name a colt who could ever take Grey Momus’s place. Mr. Bentley happened to be close by. He immediately championed my claim. A heated debate ensued, but there were no shifty eyes or hesitations or prevarications of any kind. Nothing to signify anyone having something to hide.”
“Not all criminals have shifty eyes,” Willow pointed out.
Holly considered the guests. No one was above suspicion; even the most elderly race enthusiast could have hired someone to steal the colt. She supposed it might be time to expand her investigation and wrangle invitations to the other area stud farms. But so far, no one had mentioned the Ashworths’ extraordinary colt, not even in passing. That suggested that the existence of the animal was not common knowledge, that no one outside of the Ashworth family had ever seen it.
Which pointed the guilt toward the Ashworths themselves. Not that any of them had mentioned the colt, either.
“What about Lord Bryce?” she said. “Have either of you had the opportunity to speak with him?”
Willow turned away, but not before Holly witnessed the blush flooding her face.
“Willow? Have you and Lord Bryce conversed?”
“Ah, no . . . not about anything significant.” On her way to the wardrobe, she changed course and opened one of their trunks that had been placed beneath the window. She rummaged through the contents.
“What constitutes ‘not really’?” Ivy prodded. “And when did you speak to him?”
Kneeling, her head all but hidden inside the trunk, Willow replied, “Yesterday . . . during the demonstrations. He showed me the veterinary annex.” A chemise and a pair of stockings flew over her shoulder to land on the floor behind her.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Holly folded her arms across her chest. “We thought you’d gone up to the gardens with some of the other guests.”
When Willow didn’t answer, Holly went to her, grasped her shoulders, raised her to her feet, and turned her about. Though she’d have thought it impossible, her sister’s blush had deepened. “Good heavens, Willow, what happened in the veterinary wing?”
“Nothing. Lord Bryce . . . showed me kittens. That is all.”
“That is all?” Over her shoulder, Holly exchanged a glance with Ivy. She looked back at Willow. “Those must have been extraordinary kittens.”
“It is nearly nine,” Willow said in a swift change of subject. “We are expected downstairs presently.”
With a sigh, Holly released her and stepped away. “I have a plan and I’ll need your help. Once supper is over, I shall slip away and search the duke’s private office. Lady Sabrina mentioned earlier that that is where the record books on all the horses are kept.”
“And you think you’ll open one of those books and see, ‘Remarkable colt given to and then stolen back from Her Majesty the Queen’?”
“No, Ivy, I do not expect to find that written in the ledgers. But surely the duke made a notation of his gift, perhaps with some specific identifying qualities I might use to differentiate the animal from among countless others that look virtually the same.” Holly went to the dressing table and picked up her fan, then stood tapping it against her chin. “Will you both help me or not?”
“Of course we’ll help you.” Looking infinitely calmer n
ow, Willow came up beside her and slipped an arm around her waist. “I am guessing you want us to distract the others so no one notices you’ve gone.”
“You do that, Willow,” she said. “If anyone asks, make my excuses. Just don’t say I developed a headache or any other ailment, or the duchess will insist on following so she can nurse me back to health. I plan to exit the ballroom onto the terrace and reenter through the corridor near the library. Ivy, should someone decide to search for me, you come through the house and warn me.”
Ivy nodded her understanding. Holly did a quick survey of her sisters: their coifs, evening gowns, and glowing faces. “Causing a distraction shouldn’t be difficult. You both look ravishing.”
Ivy beamed at her. “As do you, dearest. You are certain to dazzle.”
The image of striking features and strong arms flashed in her mind, and the notion of whether he would find her dazzling heated her through. She shook the thought away. Now was the time to concentrate, not fall prey to girlish fancies. With a toss of her curls, she pulled up straighter and opened her fan. “For Victoria, then. Are we ready?”
Chapter 12
In awe Holly considered the evidence of wealth that shimmered in every crystal-dripping chandelier, every flawlessly polished mirror, every gleaming gilt frame and carving and clock that graced the Ashworths’ ballroom. It was said the Duke of Masterfield’s peers often shook their heads at his propensity to dirty his hands in trade. If the extravagance of marble and silver and sumptuous silk could speak, it would tell the story of a man who believed himself to have the last laugh. As Victoria had told her, the duke was even now on his way to the West Indies to survey his plantations and purchase more land.
A string quartet and a pianoforte tucked into an alcove provided the music. As the duchess began pairing off her guests for the next quadrille, Holly avoided her by ducking behind a flock of plump matrons who declared their disinclination to dance by closing ranks and embarking on a rousing commentary about what the other ladies were wearing.
Holly had already danced a quadrille, a minuet, and a waltz, but this one she meant to sit out, or rather move through the room long enough to establish her presence. Should anyone inquire after her, people would say, “Oh, yes, I was just speaking to her. She went off that way. . . .”
Near the center of the room, Willow stood paired with a tall young man whose thatch of dark hair insisted on falling in his eyes despite copious amounts of pomade. Ivy had taken a seat on one of the satin-covered settees along the far wall. The very young Countess of Huntley sat beside her, nervously fluttering her fan and darting her gaze all about her. As Holly watched, Ivy placed a hand on her companion’s wrist and appeared to set about distracting her from her cares.
The music began, and the dancers commenced the opening steps. Holly deemed it safe to disengage herself from the camouflaging matrons, but before she left them she joined briefly in their debate over the merits of feathers versus jewels versus ribbons in the latest headdresses.
“Does not a ribbon or two, and perhaps a small, carefully placed jewel, suffice?” she asked, then awaited their responses as if their opinions were of the utmost importance to her.
Lady Bidsworth raised her lorgnette to study her, her sharp eyes nearly swallowed by the plump folds of her aged face. “Only when the wearer is as young as you, my dear. Enjoy simplicity while yet you may.”
Smiling, Holly moved on, greeting people as she went, stopping to exchange pleasantries and trade opinions about the day’s demonstrations and activities. She didn’t remain with any group longer than a minute or two, but worked her way steadily across the room.
As she neared the open terrace doors, she stopped and turned for a final surveillance of the ballroom. The dancers had formed two elegant lines and were presently tracing a graceful pattern down the center of the room. The rest mingled along the room’s perimeter, watching, talking, laughing, all beneath the solicitous eye of the duchess. A middle-aged couple, husband and wife, drifted past Holly and out onto the terrace, tipping their heads to her in greeting. She was just about to turn and follow them out when her gaze lighted on Lord Drayton, standing in front of one of the room’s several fireplaces. He looked magnificent in ebony tails and a white silk waistcoat, his equally pristine neckcloth tied simply.
He didn’t need artifice; didn’t need embellishments to outshine his peers. He need only stand with his shoulders broad and relaxed. Powerful without effort, he was a man equally at home in a ballroom as in the saddle.
Her stomach dropped. Beside him, smiling up at him, was the golden-haired beauty who had arrived that afternoon with her parents: Lady Penelope Wingate, whose father owned profitable shares in the Ashworths’ West Indies plantations.
“My father is pushing the match,” Lady Sabrina had whispered in Holly’s ear earlier that day. “She’s exquisite, isn’t she?”
Holly had to agree, whereupon Lady Sabrina had leaned closer to confide, “She’s also a distant relation to the queen, which is why Father is so keen on Colin marrying her. Personally, I don’t like her. Despite her lineage there is a commonness about her that borders on vulgarity, as well as a look in her eye that prompts one to suspect her of clandestine thoughts.”
“Vulgar royalty?” Holly had asked with a chuckle, while her insides turned queasy.
“She is only just royal.”
Holly shouldn’t have asked her next question, but she hadn’t been able to refrain. “What does your brother think of her?”
She had held her breath as she waited for the answer, dread pitching and churning in her stomach.
Lady Sabrina had laughed without humor. “One never can know precisely what Colin is thinking.”
Based on the significant looks passing between Lord Drayton and Lady Penelope, Holly would say he liked her exceedingly well, despite her exaggerated curls and overabundance of jewelry.
A misery as cold as hoarfrost settled over Holly’s heart. Her thoughts tumbled back to her tour of the stables that morning, to the many insights Colin had shared with her. Did he share his aspirations with Lady Penelope? Was he even now explaining his theories of prevailing and dormant traits to the eager young royal chit batting her eyelashes at him?
“Miss Sutherland. A pleasant evening, no?”
She started, then disguised her flinch with a flick of her fan. Stuart Bentley stood at her shoulder, gazing out over the ballroom as if to join in her contemplation of the proceedings.
“Superlative,” she said, barely suppressing a huff of exasperation. She had just been about to make her escape, would have made it, if only she hadn’t lingered over Colin Ashworth’s conquest of the simpering Penelope Wingate.
Pivoting on his heel to face her, Mr. Bentley tipped a bow. “And how is it that such a lovely lady is not dancing?”
“I mean not to dance this set, sir. The day has left me weary and—”
“Ah, but a new set is just beginning. Will you not do me the honor of standing up with me?”
Oh dear. Oh no. The duchess chose that moment to hasten across the ballroom, honing in on them like an arrow to its mark. “Yes, delightful! Mr. Bentley, Miss Sutherland, do lead the others into the next waltz.”
Holly could hardly refuse without appearing insufferably rude. When the quadrille ended and the next number began, she had little choice but to place her hand in Stuart Bentley’s and walk with him to the center of the gleaming parquet floor.
“Is it not most fortunate, my lord, that our fathers’ interests coincide so agreeably?”
“Indeed, Lady Penelope,” Colin murmured in reply, though to what he had just agreed he wasn’t quite certain. As she nattered on, his gaze drifted over the ballroom, then abruptly stopped. What was this? Bentley and Miss Sutherland were dancing a waltz.
What was Bentley up to? Colin thought he had made himself perfectly clear at the stables that morning. Had Bentley forgotten, or had he grown a substantial pair of bollocks in the interim?
Beside him,
Penelope went silent. Colin shifted his gaze back to her, at the same time wondering why he put up even the slightest pretense of interest. Despite his father’s well-vocalized wishes, he had no intention of marrying her. Not now, now ever; not even if she were next in line to the throne.
Especially not then.
She blinked, her lips curving in a smile that struggled to be sophisticated. “But perhaps such matters are best left unsaid.”
“Matters?” He tried to remember what she’d been talking about, but Miss Sutherland’s bright blue skirts swept the corner of his vision and drove all other thoughts clear from his mind.
“Business, my lord. Commerce.” She half mouthed the words as if they were blasphemies.
“Nothing untoward about business, Lady Penelope.”
“Then you agree with my father’s opinion on the subject?”
He wished Penelope would stop talking so he could concentrate on the elegance of Miss Sutherland’s arms, the curve of her nape, the tightness of her cinched waist as she circled round and round the ballroom. Colin shouldn’t have been surprised at her agility. Riding would have sculpted her figure to perfection—he’d wager a small fortune on the potential magnificence of her thighs—while the subtle nuances of maneuvering a mount would have taught her a dexterity that easily translated to other physical endeavors . . . such as dancing.
He yanked his attention back to the young lady beside him. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Do you agree that England should empty its debtors’ prisons, not to mention repeal the Abolition of Slavery Act, in order to provide a viable workforce to our protectorates around the world?”
“What?”
Just then, the music ended. After a bob of curtsy, Miss Sutherland scurried away from Bentley’s side. Colin followed her progress down the long room. She paused near her sister Ivy, then continued on until she reached the terrace doors. As she crossed the threshold, the torchlight outside set brilliant highlights dancing in her hair, gilded the folds of her gown, and tinged her skin with a warm, inviting glow.
Recklessly Yours Page 13